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A GUN POINTED AT MY HEAD, and a man behind it. Rick — the same Rick that had been spitting up his own blood in the courtyard.
I never thought he would make it out of the combat with Brian. Earlier I'd decided he was good. Good people never won those things, and if they did, they left with only half of their morality. In his eyes, there didn't seem to be enough to spare my life.
"I saw you in the fields. With the others." He spit his words out harshly, placing his finger near the trigger.
I stared at Rick, then the boy standing beside him, hoisting his father up. He had the same eyes as Rick. The sharp kind. The color wasn't friendly, or inviting. It was cold, and I dared not to get close for fear of the frost.
The only real difference between them, apart from their age, was the brown sheriffs hat which sat atop his son's head. His face was hardened and unforgiving, yet the slightest reflection of weakness streamed down his face in the way of tears. I wished I could take more time to divulge the image, but the two's grim facial expressions had me wanting to be anywhere else but here, looking anywhere but their faces; to the flicks of hair curling around the hat, the steady hands that held his gun. Anywhere but his eyes again.
The father was apparent in his shaky weakness, and the boy mirrored Rick, but in a complete different sense. His exterior was fine. It was his mind that seemed to be breaking. I wasn't sure how I could tell, but only that I could. Perhaps it was the shared experience of losing someone that any remaining survivor could relate with.
Not one of us were here without sacrifice or efforts from another being.
The two put up a fearless front, but I knew it wouldn't take much to escape the barrel aimed at me. Nothing more than an ounce of initiative, and I could be on my way. They were too weak to stop me, and although it was a terrible thing to hope, I wished that whatever tragedy they had just witnessed was enough to snuff that flickering flame of determination within.
